


Winter Danger

by CatLovePower



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidents, Angst, Concussions, Drowning, Gen, Hunt Gone Wrong, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Mild Blood, Panic Attacks, Sparring, Whump, Winter At Kaer Morhen, not beta-ed, self-indulgent little thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:26:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26329357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: Winter in Kaer Morhen proves dangerous for Jaskier, and Lambert can't help but feel guilty when an afternoon of fun with Ciri takes a turn for the worse.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert
Comments: 78
Kudos: 571





	1. On Thin Ice

Lambert should have known this was a bad idea. He wasn’t a babysitter, dammit, he didn’t like kids – or bards. And yet for some unexplained reason, he had been entrusted with both one afternoon, as Ciri wanted to explore and Jaskier just tagged along, thankfully without his damn instrument. Lambert had relented, because surely a kid like Ciri could use some fresh air outside the keep, and even if it was the middle of winter, it wasn’t actively snowing or anything. 

They ended up by the lake, entirely frozen at this time of year. Ciri had pleaded, and Lambert had shrugged. Sure, why not step on it, the ice was probably so thick a little kid like her couldn’t break it. Jaskier had followed soon after, nearly falling on his ass once or twice as he tried to join a giggling Ciri on the ice. How could a grown man be so badly coordinated was beyond Lambert. He looked like a newborn fawn, ready to topple. 

Lambert stayed on the snow covered shore, kicking stones and thinking that Geralt should be the one out there, with his kid surprise and his bard. He was training with Eskel, after some jokes were made about him getting fat. Geralt was nothing but chiseled muscle, but he was also very susceptible, hence the extensive training. Eskel probably just said that to have a sparring companion who wouldn’t tire too quickly.

In the end, the laughter from Geralt’s kid and his idiot bard turned out to be contagious, and Lambert surprised himself by smiling as he looked at them. They were playing some game of catch and Jaskier was losing, too slow and too unstable on his feet. At least he wore a winter coat, unlike the first year he tagged along with Geralt, nearly frozen by the time they had reached the keep.

“Come join us!” Ciri shouted at him, her voice shrill with excitement.

Why not, after all, Lambert thought. He couldn’t remember a time he had stepped on ice willingly, and not by accident or to escape a monster. Maybe they had the right idea, maybe dangerous things could be fun, too.

He took a few, cautious steps, half expecting the ice to crack underneath his weight. But it was so thick he couldn’t see the water below, and it didn’t creak ominously. He raised his head and watched the two excited humans in his reluctant care, squealing and trying to grab each other’s clothes.

Jaskier was running, and then he slipped, and before Lambert could even react, he fell backwards, hitting his head on the ice, hard. Ciri stopped dead in her tracks, a look of horror plastered on her small face; Lambert had felt the shock through the ice, and he winced. That couldn’t be good.

He took a step forward when Jaskier failed to sit up and laugh it off. In fact, the bard hadn’t moved at all. Ciri screamed, “Stop!” and that’s when Lambert saw it – the spider web of cracks all around the impact on the ice. All around Jaskier’s head. No wonder he hadn’t woken up.

The instant of indecision on Lambert’s part proved fatal. The ice cracked and Jaskier’s body disappeared into the freezing water of the lake. Ciri screamed again and fell to her knees as she tried to back away, watching the hole in front of her with a horrified expression. 

“To the shore, slowly,” Lambert ordered, and, bless her heart, the kid complied, unshed tears clinging to her frozen lashes. She moved carefully on her hands and knees and managed to reach the ground safely. 

Lambert swore some colorful things that were certainly not fit for a little girl’s ears. Then he took his winter coat and his boots off, and dived into the hole in the ice.

*

The bard was blue. As blue as his doublet, as blue as his eyes. Geralt was going to kill him for killing Jaskier, Lambert thought, confusedly, angrily. 

The cold was making his thoughts sluggish and he realized that the weird noise he could hear was his own teeth. Ciri was silent by his side; she had helped him take Jaskier’s waterlogged clothes off, and wrap him in Lambert’s own coat. But he wasn’t breathing, and he was so still.

Lambert didn’t even remember putting back his boots. He didn’t remember walking back to the keep, holding a frozen Jaskier in his arms and letting Ciri tug him in the right direction.

Next thing he knew, Geralt was yelling, and Eskel was asking him hurried questions, and Ciri was crying for real this time. 

There was a fire roaring in the big fireplace of the hall, and some crazy part of his brain told him to chuck himself into the flames to thaw. He slipped to the floor, in a puddle of wet clothes, as soon as his frozen burden was snatched from his arms.

“He’s not breathing,” Geralt remarked uselessly. He’s dead, Lambert tried to say, I’m sorry. “Why didn’t you breathe for him?” Geralt asked, his tone urgent. What? Lambert blinked and tried to think, unearthing some memories of his training that he thought long forgotten. 

In front of his hallucinated gaze, on the stony ground of the keep, Geralt started pushing on Jaskier’s chest, fast, repetitive movements, and then he pinched his nose and breathed into his mouth. He repeated it, an endless loop of pushing and breathing, doing what Jaskier’s heart and lungs were unable to do at the moment – because he was dead, Lambert thought bitterly.

Eskel tried to help him out of his clothes, but he pushed him away. He couldn’t take his eyes off Geralt. The determination with which he worked was unbelievable; he looked in a trance, not stopping for a second. Never stopping. 

Until Jaskier coughed and sputtered some lake water all over the stone floor of the hall. Geralt rolled him on his side, holding him close – for warmth, and to check his pulse; Lambert could tell the other witcher was listening to his companion’s heart as it started pumping again on its own.

And Lambert tried not to feel guilty and ashamed of his own failures, when Geralt’s fingers carded through Jaskier’s wet hair, where they found the bloody knot at the back of his head. He tried to apologize, spilling a flow of swear words and remorses. Geralt shook his head, not letting go of the frozen bard, his hands warm and possessive on the half naked body. 

“Not your fault,” Geralt growled. But it was. “He’s alright,” he said, as if to persuade himself. Jaskier certainly didn’t look alright.

At one point Ciri and Eskel came back into the hall with warm covers and Vesemir in tow – Lambert hadn’t even seen them get out. He accepted the help and the stern glances, keeping his head down as Ciri explained what happened. Poor kid was blaming herself apparently, and soon Geralt would too, because it was apparently a family trait, even though they weren’t linked by blood.

*

Jaskier gasped awake and coughed. It startled Lambert from where he was dozing, close to the fire. Geralt was nowhere to be seen, and Lambert felt a little bad to be the one greeting the bard as he came back from the dead, and not Geralt.

“How’s the head?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

Jaskier blinked at him, and for a brief, terrifying moment, Lambert could see no recognition in them, only icy blue confusion. Then he blinked again and frowned.

“Did a hunt go sideways?” he asked, unsure. “Is Geralt…?” he trailed.

Lambert laughed at that, abandoning the warm covers on the armchair to sit closer to Jaskier’s bedside. 

“He’s fine. Probably checking on Ciri,” he said as softly as he could. Jaskier was wincing every so slightly; he probably had a splitting headache, considering how hard his head hit the ice. “She’s fine too,” he quickly added when Jaskier opened his mouth to ask about her. 

“Did I agree to spar with one of you?” Jaskier said instead. 

“You really don’t remember?” Lambert said.

Jaskier was about to answer, but started coughing instead, wincing when it hurt his ribs. Geralt really went to town on him earlier, Lambert thought. He would have too, if he had had the presence of mind to even do it. 

When the coughing fit abated, Lambert picked up Geralt’s unhurried footsteps in the corridor. He must have heard them talking, and he was probably relieved that his bard hadn’t scrambled his brains beyond repair. 

“I’m sorry,” Lambert said, as he helped Jaskier settle again. He looked frayed and cold, when he should have looked extravagant and annoying. 

“Did you hit me in the head and sit on my chest?” Jaskier asked with a pout. 

“What?” 

“If not, what are you sorry for?” Jaskier pointed out. Some color was returning to his cheeks and he had a wild glint in his eyes now.

“Actually, Geralt did that. He kickstarted your heart back and kissed you while you were unconscious.” 

“Sounds like something he would do.” Jaskier smirked when they heard Geralt’s offended sputtering from the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written in an hour last night, but I might be considering a continuation (and more whump).


	2. Hide and "sick"

Jaskier was coughing. A dry, annoying sound, a constant reminder of his near death experience a few days ago. He wasn’t even trying to hide it, and Lambert was starting to suspect he just enjoyed the attention. The young witcher couldn’t understand Geralt’s infatuation with that annoying human; he was loud, whiny and fragile. He shouldn’t even be in Kaer Morhen, nothing would have happened if he had stayed in the valley for the winter.

Geralt was angry at him, Lambert was sure of it. Oh, he hadn’t said anything, not with words anyway – words had never been his forte. But he was giving him the silent treatment, even by Geralt’s standards, and the dark looks Lambert received every time they were in the same room sent a chill down his spine. Either Geralt was freakishly protective of his bard, or Lambert was feeling guilty for nearly killing Geralt’s most precious humans in a single afternoon.

It was late and Jaskier was plucking at his lute in front of the fire; the room was nearly too warm for witchers, but nobody dared say anything, as Geralt kept feeding the fire all evening. Ciri had fallen asleep a long time ago, now tucked safely in her room upstairs. That left Lambert, a coughing bard and a silent Geralt.

“Stop looking at me like that, I’m fine,” Jaskier finally said, shrugging under Geralt’s scrutiny.

“You didn’t sing today,” Geralt said. “You’re sick.” 

“And you would be too if you had fallen in a frozen lake,” Jaskier said with a sigh and a yawn. 

Lambert felt like an intruder, but he didn’t want to leave. It sounded like the sort of conversation they were often having, and it was fascinating in a way. Humans had their limitations, and he just couldn’t understand how Geralt would put up with it.

“Actually, Lambert dove in to rescue you,” Geralt remarked with a smirk. 

“Then why is he not coughing?” Jaskier sounded indignant, and Lambert glanced at the door to see if it was still time for him to escape. 

“He’s a witcher.”

“Well it’s unfair.” 

Jaskier coughed some more and Geralt dropped a wolf pelt on him, ignoring the surprised yelp and the discordant twang of the lute. Lambert was expecting complaints, but Jaskier scoffed and buried himself in the warm fur. Geralt looked at the bard and smiled softly, the expression alien on his usually stern face. Then he glared daggers at Lambert, telling him without words that he wasn’t off the hook just yet.

*

Jaskier slept a lot, with Geralt – despite the snide remarks from the other witchers – or with Ciri curled in his lap in front of the fire. After a while his cough went away, and tension between Geralt and Lambert eased a little.

Jaskier made a point to help with food, but he also complained about so many things all the time, and talked way too much, singing in the evening and telling exaggerated tales of the White Wolf’s adventures that had the witchers laugh and Geralt roll his eyes.

Ciri seemed to like having him around. She was training with the witchers, learning about plants and potions, sparring and wielding weapons way too dangerous for her, if anyone wanted Jaskier’s opinion – they didn’t. When she had free afternoons, she usually asked Jaskier to play with her, and allowed herself to be a kid for a little while.

“Hide and seek?” Jaskier said, thinking. “I mean, you’re so small, you have an undeniable advantage here.” 

Ciri giggled and patted his arm. “Then you go hide first.” She closed her eyes and started counting aloud. 

Running was out of the question; Jaskier was still queasy when he stood up too fast, and his head felt stuffed with cotton most of the time. He didn’t complain about that particular ailment to Geralt, because he knew he would worry. There was little he could do about the lingering side effects of nearly splitting his skull open on the ice.

He still hastened his pace because he didn’t want to be too easy to find, and wandered into a dust-covered part of the keep where he had never gone before. He couldn’t hear Ciri count anymore, so either he was too far or she had already reached zero. He tried a few doors but they were locked, or maybe the wood had rotten and they got stuck.

The smell of rot became even more pungent as he made his way to the end of the corridor, plunged in the dark because all the windows were blocked. He was starting to think he should maybe go back and hide in a less disgusting part of the keep. 

The floor creaked ominously under his foot. He stopped moving, but it was already too late. For a brief instant, he was weightless. Then everything came crashing down. 

He fell several stories, in a cloud of dust and mold, thinking that it was ironic the same thing happened to him twice in the same week. 

The landing rattled his brain and stole his breath, but he didn’t lose consciousness. From where he lay, he could see the dark ceiling of the corridor he was exploring, and several jagged edges of the floors he fell through. He knew he should sit up and check if he was injured, find a way out or call for help. He’d do it in a minute, when the dark room would stop spinning.

*

Ciri wasn’t panicking, she really wasn’t. Jaskier was just very, very good at hide and seek. There was no way he vanished into thin air, no matter how often people called him a fae.

She wandered about, scuttling faster every time she saw Geralt or Vesemir in the distance. It was nearly time for evening chores, but she couldn’t stop looking. 

She had lost Jaskier. She needed help.

*

Lambert was chopping wood outside – a tiring and repetitive task, even more so now that Geralt had brought humans who needed so much warmth all the time. He didn’t stop when he spotted Ciri, running towards him. The kid had way too much energy; she probably tired the bard, and now she was looking for someone else to play with. He gritted his teeth and swung the axe a little too forcefully, and swore when it got stuck in the stump.

“What do you want?” he barked, without turning his head.

“Lambert?” The voice was tiny and hesitant, so unlike Ciri’s usual assured tone. He let go of the axe, still in the wood, and looked at her.

She looked cold and tired, annoyed and scared. Oh that was not good, he thought. 

“What is it?” he asked again, softer this time.

“I lost Jaskier,” she whispered, looking at her shoes.

Of course it was about the bard. That man had two left hands and kept getting into trouble no matter what he did. It was a mystery how he survived for so long following Geralt.

“Why tell me, and not Geralt?” Lambert asked, and he got his answer when Ciri raised her head to look at him, guilt evident on her young face.

“He’s protective,” Ciri started.

“Like a mother hen.” Lambert nodded.

“So can you help?”

And she launched into a tirade, explaining their game, and how she believed something magical was afoot, because Jaskier couldn’t have disappeared like that. It was very possible he got lost in the keep, or distracted from the game, but Lambert didn’t tell her that.

He followed her all the way to the main hall, where she last saw him when she started counting. She looked at him expectantly, and he sighed. He was a witcher, dammit, not a bloodhound. But the scent was there, lingering in the cold air. Jaskier liked his soaps and oils, because apparently he couldn’t do anything discreetly, not even washing up.

*

Jaskier opened eyes he didn’t mean to close, and was greeted by darkness. The dust had settled, but the dark was oppressing. Or maybe he had a broken rib compressing his lungs, that was also a possibility. He groaned loudly and sat up, gathering his strength to actually get to his feet. 

He really hoped Ciri was still looking for him, and that training had already started to develop her witcher senses, because he needed those right now. He fumbled until he found the wall, following the stony surface until he reached a door. Of course, it was locked.

Feeling marginally better now that he was upright, he decided to explore the room he was apparently trapped in. The further he strayed from the bard-shaped hole above his head, the less he could see. So he used his hands to check his surroundings, and everything he touched was gross. There were shelves, stacked with dusty bottles, broken glass – ouch – and some sticky substance coating everything. He really hoped it wasn’t blood, or weird monster guts.

*

“Can you promise not to tell Geralt?” Ciri asked out of the blue, just as they reached the third floor – just how far did that idiot go? The scent was faint, as if he only stayed there for an instant, before… not, he didn’t vanish, that was ludicrous. A magical bard was just too silly to even imagine.

“Tell him what?” Lambert asked, suddenly distracted.

“That I failed him.” 

“Jaskier is a grown man,” Lambert stressed. “He’s hardly your responsibility.” 

That answer didn’t seem to satisfy the kid, so he sighed and added, “I won’t tell Geralt if he’s alright.” 

The floor creaked, and he shot an arm in front of Ciri to prevent her from taking another step. There was a hole in front of them, and the scent disappeared in it. Great, just great, he thought.

“Hello?” Ciri shouted, understanding the situation with a surprising calm. She knelt carefully and didn’t go closer, but turned her head to listen.

For a few, anxious instants, they didn’t hear a sound. But then there was shuffling and grunts, and a bright voice answered from below, “I’m pretty sure I won the game.” 

Ciri let out a shaky laugh and started protesting, easy banter to defuse the situation. She probably could hear Jaskier’s strained breathing and the thinly veiled pain in his voice when he spoke, just as clearly as Lambert. 

“How many floors?” the witcher asked.

Jaskier coughed and said, “Two. I went through two very rotten floors, and I think some repairs are in order.”

Lambert wracked his mind, trying to remember what was two floors underneath that part of the keep. Mostly rooms they didn’t use anymore, bedrooms of witchers long dead and forgotten. 

“If you come get me I have a surprise,” Jaskier teased, but it was somewhat undermined by his persistent cough.

“I can’t believe it,” Lambert exclaimed. “That idiot fell into the lost wine cellar.” 

“How do you lose a room full of alcohol?” Jaskier whined from below. “No wonder you witchers are always so grumpy.” 

*

They managed to locate the room fairly quickly, but opening the condemned door took longer than Lambert would have liked. He should have asked for help, but Ciri was insistent, and Jaskier was still talking, seemingly alert and responsive despite his plunge. 

He blinked at them when they finally pried the door open, and smiled when Lambert’s eyes lit up when he saw all the bottles behind him. Ciri didn’t care about alcohol, and she ran to hug him, releasing him as if she was burned when he hissed loudly. Ribs, Lambert thought. It explained the coughing, and the shortness of breath.

And so he patted the bard down – maybe a little roughly if his squeals of protest were anything to go by – making sure nothing was broken or about to poke a hole in a lung. 

“So, what story are we telling the others to explain how we found all that booze?” Lambert finally said with a smirk, as Ciri wrinkled her nose disapprovingly.


	3. Useless skills

Jaskier disappeared into his room, and Lambert sent Ciri after him, “to make sure he didn’t stop breathing or anything.” Her very serious nod told him how important she considered her mission, and he nearly reconsidered not sending Jaskier to Geralt or Vesemir to make sure the human was truly alright. But he was complaining a whole lot, and that probably meant that he wasn’t about to croak overnight.

“And Ciri and the bard found the room by accident?” Vesemir asked, eyeing the dusty bottles that Lambert had put on the wooden table.

“At last, we found a use for that bard!” Lambert laughed. It earned him an elbow to the side, courtesy of Geralt.

“I always thought that cellar was a myth,” Vesemir mused out loud.

He uncorked a bottle, sniffed it – it looked like very old, very strong vodka - and poured a glass. It turned into three, then a dozen, and by the end of the evening, nobody remembered exactly where the booze came from, but everyone agreed that Jaskier was a genius for finding it.

*

Hangover witchers weren’t fun, Jaskier thought. They might look dull and slow, but they were still sharper than any human. They seemed to have fun with his earlier discovery, he realized, as he wandered downstairs to find the mess hall in a state of disarray. Even Vesemir looked grumpy – well, grumpier than usual.

Jaskier knew better than to expect them to relax and take the day off. That was the interesting and very annoying fact he discovered about witchers, during his travels with Geralt; they never really rested. Oh sure, they’d put a bed or a bath to good use, and they slept like regular people too, but most of the time they just… kept going.

He knew Geralt was slowing his pace whenever Jaskier was with him, and if it wasn’t for him, the witcher would sleep once a week and eat even less often. Like a machine, a terrifying monster killing machine, that only needed constant tuning in the form of sparring and stretches and combat discipline that looked like torture.

And so, gloomy Vesemir and the other hangover witchers were out in the courtyard, early in the freezing morning, parring and attacking with dummy swords.

Jaskier got out of the warm safety of the keep, bundled in the second most flashy coat he owned. The other one gave him a cold sweat whenever he took it out of the wardrobe, as it reminded him of drowning in the ice. He hadn’t been really aware of the whole thing, courtesy of a head injury, but his vivid imagination had helped fill in the blanks. Hence the change of coat; this one was dark red.

*

The bard was prancing around in his blood red coat, ogling them as they sparred in the morning cold. Lambert could feel his eyes on him, and he didn’t like it. Not that it was distracting, not really, but it was yet another element that didn’t feel normal. Change wasn’t easy to accept when your life expectancy was so much longer than a human.

Ciri was different, though; she was an odd kid, but she was tied to Geralt by Destiny, and all of them could sense the power inside her, dormant for now. Jaskier, however, wasn’t magical, he was just a fragile human in impractical clothes, doing useless things like writing songs full of lies and telling silly stories about things he never really witnessed.

Lambert was so wrapped up in thoughts that he missed an upcoming blow and nearly got a wooden sword to the face. He swore, loudly, as Eskel cackled.

“Tired already?” the other witcher taunted. They all were, with alcohol still in their system, but it shouldn’t impact their reflexes; they couldn’t allow it. On the path there was a potion for that, but they had to train for every eventuality.

“You wish!” Lambert smirked and raised his sword, straightening his shoulders, ready to go at it again.

Jaskier settled on a log, watching them and muttering song lyrics under his breath. At least Lambert hoped that’s what it was. He even got paper and a quill out, poking his tongue out as he tried to write down ideas. He always seemed easily distracted, even for a human, and that was a little bit worrying, even though it shouldn’t be.

Lambert could imagine Geralt, fighting off ghouls or whatnot, and having to keep an eye on him in the meantime. It must be infuriating. Lambert would have shook him off at the first city. Maybe rough him up a bit to scare him for good. That being said, he knew Jaskier had already seen Geralt amped up on potions, and yet he didn’t shy away; that was telling a lot about how big a fool he was.

Lambert made a second mistake, and nearly slipped on the frozen ground.

“You’re getting slow,” Vesemir remarked.

“Too much old timey vodka,” Jaskier said from where he sat.

Both were probably true, but Lambert wasn’t one to accept the truth, and he cursed the sun getting in his eyes, his soles slipping on the frozen ground and Eskel’s technique. There was nothing wrong with that last thing, and that started an argument, while Jaskier was snickering softly in the back.

They switched and Lambert faced Geralt, Jaskier and the sun in his back now. He focused on winning, but Geralt was a wall, and no attacks seemed to find their mark. Lambert was smaller, and more agile, so he set out to use that to his advantage. He dodged left and right, trying to trip Geralt into making a mistake. And in the end, he did, but Lambert wished he hadn’t.

Lambert swiveled, using the slippery ground, letting Geralt surge forward like a mad bull. He barreled past Lambert, who turned just in time to see the witcher collide into the silly bard who apparently had to stand up and get closer just this instant. They fell to the ground with a grunt and a yelp.

At this moment, Lambert would have loved for Jaskier to make a naughty joke and grope Geralt or kiss him. Anything would have been better than the silence that followed their tumble. Geralt scrambled away quickly, visibly panicking when Jaskier made no move to sit up. He looked pale – damn, he always looked pale nowadays, but Lambert wasn’t an expert and even he could sense that something was wrong.

“Jaskier?” Geralt tried, conflicted emotions making his voice rough.

“Urg,” the bard finally said, all eloquence forgotten. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing, slowly.

“Get up, kid, or you’ll catch a cold,” Vesemir piped up. He offered him a hand that Jaskier didn’t even see.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Jaskier groaned from the ground. “I’ll move when breathing stops hurting.”

“He’s being a baby,” Lambert grumbled.

But Geralt had opened Jaskier’s coat and lifted his shirt and doublet, and everyone let out a collective whistle when they got a glimpse of the impressive bruising mottling his torso and abdomen.

“How…” Geralt wondered out loud. There was no way he did all that.

“I fell,” Jaskier said. “Through the floor. In the cellar.”

“And you failed to mention that because…?” Geralt asked, turning towards Lambert.

He was about to get punched or worse, when Jaskier coughed and Geralt’s head whipped back to his bard. His eyes widened when he spotted the bright red blood on Jaskier’s lips. Once again, they matched his coat, Lambert thought distantly.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked again, his voice nearly gone.

If a rib poked through a lung, enough to make him cough up blood, Lambert was sure the bard was a goner. That wasn’t an injury a human could survive, and he knew that Geralt would be heartbroken about it. Vesemir was weirdly silent, probably thinking the same thing right now.

“I’m okay,” Jaskier said, trying to sit up, pushing on his elbows.

“You shouldn’t move,” Geralt said, his hands hovering close but not touching, afraid of hurting him or making it worse. “Don’t…”

“I’m okay,” Jaskier repeated, with a frown. “Just a few more bruises.”

Then he seemed to realize that he had blood on his chin, and grimaced. “I bit my tongue,” he said, and he had the decency to look sheepish. Lambert could have punched him for that. The little shit was clumsy, but he was resilient.

Geralt seemed relieved, but he still insisted on getting Jaskier healing salves and wrapping bandages around the worst of the bruising, just in case. The bard complained and argued that it would make breathing harder, and Geralt patiently explained that it was the point, to keep every rib in place. But Jaskier was probably just running his mouth because he followed without a fuss.

Sparing continued for a little while until lunch time, but it felt wrong somehow, and Lambert realized with a horrified clarity that maybe he liked having Jaskier around, just for the novelty of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is plotless fun really - not so fun for Jaskier, but I like hurting him.  
> A hug to all the people who subscribed :o


	4. Old wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some angst for a change, because why not.

After that, Jaskier seemed fine for a while, as everyone got extra careful around him. The bard was basking in the attention, getting even louder and more loquacious as before. The whirlwind of constant words was dizzying, and Lambert often rolled his eyes at his crazy stories, where apparently no monster was depicted accurately, ever.

The key, Geralt had said when he first introduced Jaskier to the others, was to tune it out. Jaskier had let out outraged bard noises at that, and everyone had laughed back then. And although it was actually sound advice, Lambert now realized it had been a joke, and Geralt was always listening to Jaskier’s inane chatter. Sometimes he even smiled fondly when he thought no one was looking, and once, Lambert caught him mouthing the words to a love song along with Jaskier’s singing. 

It was clear that Geralt and the bard were a couple – maybe not in the romantic sense of the term, because the witcher wouldn’t recognize romance if it hit him in the face – but nobody in the keep had any doubts about it. They wore each other’s smell on them, like companions sharing a bedroll when it was cold, but the keep was vast and had many empty rooms to be alone. They liked the proximity, or they just got used to it somehow. Lambert totally got that.

Nobody spoke about it; it was one of the things that just were. There were a few remaining witchers, the last of their kind. There was a dangerous wonder child hunted by the Niflgaardian army. And there was a bard. 

There wasn’t anything in the code about relationships, simply because no witcher was usually dumb enough to fall in love. But for some reason they seemed to avoid demonstrations of affection in front of the others. Geralt had never been a really affectionate person to begin with, but the bard… he was weirdly guarded when it came to Geralt, despite being loud and exuberant in everything else. There was probably a sad story there, one that Jaskier hadn’t told yet.

Lambert was distracted by notions of love, trust and companionship when he pushed the door to Geralt’s room. He didn’t bother knocking because he was in a hurry – Vesemir had asked him to track Geralt and Ciri down, and they clearly didn’t want to be found. The girl wasn’t in her room, or in the kitchens, and Geralt wasn’t anywhere it seemed.

The door banged against the wall and Jaskier jumped in the air and yelped comically. He was sitting on the bed, in his small clothes, and cradling his lute. Was he sleeping with it? Lambert wasn’t sure he wanted to know, bards were strange creatures like that.

Lambert was suddenly aware of his own bulk. He was stockier than Geralt, but still a lot bigger than the soft human bard. He was towering over him, the power imbalance evident, and it made the witcher feel uneasy. He realized that Jaskier’s reaction was all wrong – after his initial startle, he didn’t shy away, didn’t flinch anymore or look wary, as he should have. It made sense, since he trusted Geralt, but it still felt strange to be the object of such a trust.

“Uh,” Lambert said, running a hand through his hair, his eyes darting around the room.

“Geralt is not here,” Jaskier said, as if he could read his mind. 

“And Ciri?” Lambert grunted. “She escaped Vesemir’s lesson earlier.”

“She said, and I quote, that alghouls were boring and that she’d rather be learning how to throw fireballs. I think they’re out in the woods. It was too early for me so I didn’t join them,” Jaskier said with a sleepy yawn.

“It’s ten in the morning,” Lambert remarked.

“Like I said, too early.”

“What are you working on?”

Lambert didn’t know what possessed him to ask such a question, but he had noticed the open notebook and the papers strewn about on the bed covers, and got curious all of a sudden. New poetry meant new reasons to mock the bard’s deformed version of reality, he reasoned. 

“This,” Jaskier said, pointing at one of the pages, “is a love song for a dear friend of mine, a countess who abandoned me rather cruelly last spring. This one,” he continued, indicating another page, “is a ditty about an innkeeper who’s quite a bad loser and the world needs to know about it. And this…”

“Alright, got it,” Lambert stopped him with a frown.

There were marks on Jaskier’s naked wrists, and he didn’t understand why he hadn’t seen them before. Both arms sported angry circles of scar-like tissue, raised and whitish, fading. Jaskier caught him looking, and he quickly pulled his sleeves down to cover the skin.

“Did Geralt do that to you?” Lambert finally asked, unsure if it was even his place to ask.

“Of course not,” Jaskier laughed, his voice light and carefree, maybe a little too much to be true. “He’s always touching me like he thinks I might break. I’m telling you, it’s even worse lately. It’s not even fun in the sack anymore…”

“I don’t want to hear about that!” Lambert nearly screamed.

He might have been fine with it, but he didn’t need the details. That was probably the wrong thing to say, because Jaskier let his head drop and pretended to busy himself with his notes, but his hands were shaking too much for it to be believable. 

“Jaskier?” Lambert tried again, and he approached slowly, like he might have a wild animal, a wounded doe or something. “What happened?” 

For a moment he thought Jaskier hadn’t even heard him. He shuffled papers around, and then finally, his voice a mere whisper, he said, “Nilfgaard.” 

That was unexpected. Neither him nor Geralt – or even Ciri – had talked about a skirmish with the army; if they had been followed here… But no, the scars were old and fading, whatever happened, it was long before this winter. 

Lambert sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to crumple any poetry. Jaskier looked at him then, with big, blue eyes that seemed impossibly bright for a mere human. He opened his mouth and suddenly it was as if a dam had broken, and everything came unraveling. The capture, the interrogation, the too tight ropes, leaving angry marks on his wrists as a reminder.

“Shit, kid, you survived torture?” Lambert exclaimed, genuinely amazed. “That’s impressive! Where was Geralt?” 

Jaskier’s lip was trembling lip by then, and he tried to explain, with a quivering voice, that Geralt had left him. His eyes glazed over and he looked clearly lost in the painful memory. Silent tears started rolling on his cheeks and Lambert panicked. 

“Eskel!” he yelled.

His brother was in the keep, somewhere downstairs, but he must be able to hear him. The bard didn’t even flinch, despite the loud noise, so close to his face. Lambert was at a loss there, and he wished Geralt was back from whatever foolish training he was doing in the woods, because he needed help.

“I broke Geralt’s bard,” Lambert grumbled, when Eskel poked his scarred head around the door.

“What are you on about?”

Jaskier didn’t even acknowledge his presence; he was watching the wall and trying to draw shaky breathes, way too fast. 

Eskel took a quick look of him, and sighed, “He’s having a panic attack,” like it was something to be expected with humans. “What did you do?”

“Why does everyone just assume that I’m responsible?” Lambert protested. “He was telling me about these,” he gestured towards Jaskier’s wrists, “and then this happened…” he made a face, indicating the sobbing bard.

“He probably remembered whatever happened to cause these, and got overwhelmed by the memory,” Eskel explained, patiently, looking way too sure of himself. 

“He’s freaking out because of… a memory?” Lambert asked, slowly, suspiciously. That seemed like a silly notion and a dangerous flaw; but then again, Jaskier didn’t have years of training to lock painful memories in a mental vault and focus on other things instead, like witchers did. 

“How do we get him out of it?” 

“Axii?” Eskel shrugged.

Lambert could have smacked himself for not thinking about it on his own. He made the sign and watched Jaskier’s eyelids droop, his mind suggestible, his consciousness malleable.

“You were brave,” he said, hesitating, not wanting to cause more harm. “You are brave. Geralt was an ass for forsaking you. You should kick him in the shin and–”

Eskel tsked his disapprobation, and Lambert stopped talking. He wrapped a large hand around Jaskier’s slender wrists, his fingers only ghosting the scar there.

“And those are fading so much that you can’t see them anymore,” he added, because it was the nice thing to do.

*

Later, Lambert tried to pry more information out of Jaskier, because he felt all that newfound respect for the bard who had escaped the army and lived to tell the tale – or rather not to speak about it until it hurt – and he just couldn’t let it slide.

“Why didn’t you tell Geralt?” 

“He had other things to think about at the time.” Jaskier shrugged. “Yennefer was the one who rescued me, I figured she must have told him.” 

“But why not discuss it, why not write a song about it?” Lambert pressed.

The bard was so talkative and always had strong opinions about everything; it seemed wrong that he had kept a secret like that one from everyone, including his dear witcher.

“I didn’t want him to pity me, like you’re doing right now.” 

Lambert scoffed at that. “I just don’t get it. It seemed like the perfect opportunity for blackmail and emotional manipulation. I thought you liked that.” 

“Hmm,” Jaskier said, stealing a line from Geralt.

“You should feel proud, and he should feel bad,” Lambert said with a nod.

“I did feel the sudden urge to kick him this morning,” Jaskier remarked, thoughtful, and Lambert started cackling.

“But maybe talk to him?” he finally suggested. “He’s a good listener.”


	5. Blood on Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chaotic bard and hurt witcher...

They kept animals inside the walls, a cow, some pigs and a few hens, but the witchers liked to go out hunting, from time to time. Now with two more mouths to feed, it was a necessity more than ever. Lambert liked the exercise, and the silence, so he volunteered. It felt nice to be hunting again, even if it was for food and not coin. 

A testament of how rusty he was, he didn’t hear Jaskier following him at a distance right away, as he should have. A smirk widened on his face as he thought of a way to get back at the bard. He quickened the pace and swiftly hid behind a large pine tree, feeling silly but also not caring at all.

Jaskier barreled straight past him, and Lambert got the drop on him, grabbing him from behind and clamping a gloved hand on his mouth. He was expecting a whiff of fear, maybe a muffled cry. Instead he got a kick in the shin and a strong headbutt that nearly split his nose. He let go of the bard with a string of swear words. 

“Why are you following me?” Lambert asked, none too gently.

Jaskier looked smug, crossing his arms as Lambert glared. “I wanted to compare your technique to Geralt’s.” 

“He lets you go along on hunts?” Lambert asked, unable to hide the surprise in his tone.

“Hmm, no. He says I’m noisy and I scare any game around.”

“Sounds like him,” Lambert chuckled. 

*

In the end, he didn’t explicitly agree on letting Jaskier come, but when he started walking again, the bard followed, and he didn’t say anything.

Jaskier was everything but discreet, Lambert realized after a few more steps. Snow crushed underfoot, his clothes ruffled, even the way the bard breathed was loud. But they were going up a slope, and he was only human, so that was to be expected. He wasn’t singing at least.

Lambert picked up the pace, out of spite, to see if the bard would keep up or just give up and whine. But Jaskier was in good shape, and he didn’t complain. He huffed and puffed, and put his gloved hands under his armpits because the wind was bitingly cold up there.

“Why are you here, bard?” Lambert asked when they reached a clearing at the top of the hill, where the trees were scarcer. His tone was harsh, but Jaskier smiled like an idiot, red in the face and breathing hard. 

“I told you,” Jaskier started, “I wanted to compare–” 

“No, I mean here, why are you wintering in Kaer Morhen with a bunch of monsters…” Lambert hesitated on the last word and watched Jaskier’s blue eyes grow cold, like a winter sky before a storm. The bard made a low groan in his throat, reminiscent of Geralt’s grunts.

Lambert frowned and corrected, “… monster hunters?” Jaskier gave a tiny nod of approval and Lambert continued ranting, feeling wrong-footed all of a sudden. “I get why Ciri is here. Why she feels safe. She saw war and death, she can’t fear witchers” – Destiny won’t allow it, he thought. “But you? This isn’t a place for humans.”

He looked at Jaskier, expecting him to tear up or get angry. But the bard just shrugged and said, “I’m more resilient than you’re giving me credit for.” 

Why wasn’t he afraid of witchers… Lambert had been unable to wrap his mind around that mystery since the day they met, and he was still puzzled by it. 

“Geralt said…” Jaskier started again, his voice high-pitched and grating now.

“Yes, I know, ‘the bard stays’,” Lambert quoted, “but I still don’t get it. It’s dangerous.”

“And I find danger sexy,” Jaskier pointed out, waving his hand to encompass Lambert and the forest blanketed by snow. 

The witcher scoffed and resumed his silent tracking, with Jaskier on his heels. He slowed down a bit, because they were too far from the keep for Jaskier to go back on his own – Lambert wasn’t making the mistake of endangering Geralt’s bard yet another time. The snow was falling heavily now, but Jaskier was wearing a fluffy white coat that looked both expensive and practical enough. Just how many coats did that idiot bring… 

*

The traces in the snow were puzzling. Lambert had been tracking a doe, but the damn animal was going in circles, scared out of its mind. At first he thought about a bear, hunting the same prey, but he couldn’t find any evidence of it. The threat had to be human then, or at least intelligent enough to hide any signs they were ever there.

Retreating now would have been the safest thing to do, even if it meant no fresh meat for the time being. But if there were really humans out there, that far north, he couldn’t risk leading them back to the keep. Not with Ciri in their care.

Something was wrong, the witcher realized. Noise – or rather the absence of it. He stilled abruptly, and Jaskier nearly sent them both toppling in the snow when he didn’t and collided with Lambert’s back head first.

“Why are we stopping?” the bard asked, too loud, always too loud.

He put his hands on his hips and was about to ask more silly questions, not sensing Lambert’s tension, or hearing the unnatural silence which had fallen on the forest.

“Goddammit, bard! For once in your life, be quiet,” Lambert growled.

Surprisingly, it worked. Jaskier’s face contorted, but he clamped his mouth shut and looked vexed – but thankfully silent. Good. Lambert could deal with his hurt sensibility later.

They heard a branch crack, somewhere on their left, and Jaskier’s childish pout turned into a look of determination that seemed odd on his face. He didn’t even need verbal cues, it seemed, only a light shove and a direction, to start running for cover. His white coat would help camouflage him, Lambert hoped, as he watched him go through the heavy snow. 

Men attacked a second later; grim looking mercenaries, swords for hire most probably, sent by the Empire as spies or assassins. There was no way random bandits would venture that far north in the middle of winter. He unsheathed his sword, the steel one, and screamed as he attacked. His assailants were trained, but also stiff with cold and not expecting the burst of magic as Lambert unleashed Aard on them, making them easier to fight individually.

*

He counted four down and about as many still left standing, when he made a mistake. He caught sight of the bard, half hidden by the treeline – the idiot was probably trying to catch a glimpse of the fight, to turn it into song. Lambert paid for that moment of inattention, as one of the men managed to get behind him and plunged a short dagger in his back. He was only wearing winter clothes and light armor, not expecting trouble of that magnitude out there, and the blade sliced through cloth, skin and muscle, hitting a rib. He winced and broke the bandit’s wrist, crushing his nose with the pommel of his sword.

More men, more blood spilling on the snow, some of it his own. He couldn’t see Jaskier by the trees anymore, he couldn’t see much to be honest. Either because of the storm or because he was losing blood faster than he thought; his back felt pretty wet and warm, not a good sign. He pushed pain and other physical considerations out of his mind and pirouetted with his remaining strength, hacking through enemy limbs and bodies.

He tripped, and fell face first in the wet snow. He blinked, his head ringing. Well, that’s a shitty way to die, he thought confusedly, expecting a fatal blow that never came. Loud yelling, very close. Louder than the howling wind, the cries of the wounded writhing on the ground and his own blood thumping in his ears. Jaskier was loud. He was going to get killed. He couldn’t die. Geralt would kill him. 

Lambert tried to get to his feet, but his body wasn’t responding. His hand tried to grab his sword, but his fingers closed on nothing. The sword was gone. Fuck.

“Lambert?” Jaskier panicked yell tore through his confusion and he raised his head once again, not remembering when he had closed his eyes. “Now would be a good time for some witchering.” There was an edge of panic to Jaskier’s voice, urging him to get up. “Lambert!”

Jaskier was holding his sword with two hands, parring blow after blow, but clearly out of breath and out of luck. There were three mercenaries still standing, and they all seemed determined to kill the bard. Not on his watch, Lambert thought. He got on all fours and sent a blast of Igni across the clearing, easily avoiding Jaskier as he leaped backward. And fell, and dropped the sword. 

Adrenaline kicked in, and Lambert scrambled to his feet, unsteady and hurt, but probably a terrifying sight anyway to the men who thought him dead a minute ago. He bent down to grab a poniard from the lax fingers of one of the dead, grimacing when he could feel the edges of his wound pull open. Time to end this, he thought, pressing on his side as best he could.

“No, don’t!” Jaskier screamed, as Lambert was about to slit the throat of the last mercenary.

He stilled, more out of shock than complacency. Why would the bard want him to spare any of those killers? Nobody but them would know about it, and he was beyond caring about his reputation. And yet, he let the blade brush the man’s throat, but didn’t draw blood.

“Do…” Jaskier panted, “do that thing you do, with your fingers.” Lambert frowned, and the man wiggled in his grip. “Tell him,” Jaskier continued, “tell him his friends were attacked by bears, and that they found the keep empty.”

It was… actually pretty clever, Lambert had to admit. Killing them all would only make their leaders suspicious, and it would mean more men coming back later on. He released the survivor, sending him to his knees on the snow, and he made the sign of Axii with the hand not holding his flank, making the man susceptible to suggestions. 

They watched him get to his feet, looking like he was sleepwalking. He stumbled, not even acknowledging their presence. He blinked, looked at the dead, and started walking southward.

“Did you see me handle your sword?” Jaskier asked excitedly.

Lambert snatched it back. “That was reckless,” he said. 

“But it worked,” Jaskier remarked. “They never saw me coming.” 

“You could have been killed!” Lambert argued, leaning on his sword because the ground was starting to tilt dangerously underfoot.

Jaskier had the decency to look sheepish. Lambert gave him a look over, frowning at blood on his face – not his – and the shallow cuts on his bare arms.

“Where are your gloves?” 

“I…” Jaskier hesitated. “Took them off. Couldn’t get a good grip.” He flexed his fingers like they hurt, and looked at his hands, as white as the snow, bloodless because of the cold. 

“Here,” Lambert said, muttering under his breath. “Take mine.”

He knew going to regret it later, but he’d endure frostbite over letting the human suffer. Jaskier gratefully accepted the warm gloves, putting them on stiff fingers with some difficulty. He didn’t make a fuss, and Lambert knew it wasn’t selfishness on his part, but rather insight on witchers physiology. His fingers were much more useful than Lambert’s anyway.

“You’re not going to collapse, right?” Jaskier sounded worried, and Lambert shook his head slowly, letting the world right itself again. Darkness was creeping on the edges of his vision, but he’d had worse. 

“Let me help,” Jaskier said again, and before Lambert could ask what he meant, the bard wriggled against his good side and swung his arm over his shoulder, helping him stay upright.

“Which way?” Jaskier asked.

The question was worrying for a second, as Lambert thought about a concussion or something even worse, before he remembered that humans – and this one particularly – had a shitty sense of orientation. He pointed his chin in the right direct, and they started hobbling towards home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter coming up soonish, and it'll be a direct continuation of this one.


	6. Strong (epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took forever and a half.

Jaskier whined the whole way back, and the strangest thing was that Lambert didn’t mind. His thoughts were fuzzy and he felt cold and weak. Hot tendrils of pain radiated from the wound in his back, and he suspected that the blade had been laced with poison; that, or he was getting old.

The bard seemed to sense the urgency of the situation, and even though he kept complaining loudly, he proved very helpful, despite his slender frame. He hauled Lambert back to his feet whenever he stumbled in the snow, and even took his sword from him when he got too weak to hold it.

The witcher briefly wondered if he had ever helped Geralt like that, and why he never bragged about it. Maybe it just didn’t fit in his whole narrative about the White Wolf, hero of the people.

The constant rambling which used to be so distracting was helping him focus now. If we reach the keep, Lambert thought, he’ll shut up. If I fall, he’ll probably never do. Keep going, Lambert repeated.

*

They must have been gone a long time, because Geralt and Vesemir were outside in the courtyard, ready to go looking for them, when they finally passed the gates. Jaskier was breathing hard by then, and they both looked bloody and tired. And yet the bard still quipped about his white coat being ruined; whether he was serious or trying to lighten the mood was unclear.

Geralt quietly freaked out, Lambert distantly noted. Of course, it wasn’t an all out display of emotions, it never was with him, but his inner turmoil was evident. He gripped the bard tight, practically tearing him away from Lambert, and started patting him down, searching for the source of all the blood. He snarled ever so slightly when he found the cuts on Jaskier’s forearms, feral and possessive, but the bard pushed him away and babbled about Lambert, bandits, and the extraordinary fight he had just witnessed. 

There was nothing extraordinary about the way Lambert had got his ass handed to him, he thought as he stood there on wobbly legs, his face and limbs frozen stiff. But when he tried to speak and explain, Geralt’s strong hands encircled his shoulders and shook him, yellow eyes furiously locked on him. Accusatory. Ready to clock him for endangering his bard.

Jaskier, bless him, was still talking, trying to reason with Geralt, and Lambert heard words like poison, knife and frostbite, disjointed and muddled, before he just collapsed face first in the melting snow when Geralt released his grip on him.

*

“You ass,” Jaskier was saying when Lambert opened his eyes again. The bard had let go of Geralt and was kneeling next to Lambert.

“Why is he not healing?” Geralt dumbly asked, as if Lambert was somehow responsible for his own condition.

“Poison on the blade,” Jaskier said. “He needs a potion,” he repeated, something cold and serious in his voice. Authoritative.

Lambert was freezing up, he couldn’t even feel the ground through his ragged clothes. He couldn’t feel his hands either; he probably looked just like Jaskier when he brought him back from the frozen lake. He blinked and tried not to think about it.

He sighed in relief when Vesemir finally stepped forward and took over, frowning at the wound and making him drink a vial of something, hot and tingly.

“I’m fine, dammit!” Jaskier exclaimed, as Geralt tried to look over his arms again.

The cuts were superficial, Lambert had checked; the idiot just hurt himself handling a sword too sharp and too heavy for him. But Geralt seemed to believe he got poisoned as well. But if his hands had been at risk, they would have never heard the end of it, Lambert thought, chuckling and coughing.

*

They moved him inside, while Geralt insisted to go check on the mercenaries – “They’re all dead,” Jaskier repeated, “Lambert took care of it. They’ll never find us.” But Ciri had a target on her back, and the attack couldn’t just be a coincidence, even though they didn’t wear Nilfgaardian armors.

It took several potions, a roaring fire and some foul smelling poultice smeared over the wound, before Lambert started feeling like himself again. It had been reckless to go out unprepared and alone, and now he felt like a fool, and everyone was on edge.

“Don’t be such a worrywart,” Lambert heard Jaskier say, and even without looking, it sounded like he was pouting.

He didn’t raise his head, sure that the bard was talking to his pet witcher once again. But Geralt had left, he realized, and Jaskier was looking at him and him only.

“Sorry I couldn’t protect you,” Lambert told him. His voice was gruff, because of the cold and exhaustion, but also because he was angry at himself.

“Are you serious? You were awesome!” Jaskier exclaimed. “I’m already writing a ballad about it. Working title is ‘Blood on Snow,’” he added as if in confidence. “So, if anything, I should thank you for the inspiration.” 

“Nearly dying is inspirational?” Lambert asked for confirmation. Bards were decidedly weird creatures.

“It was scary,” Jaskier admitted. “But you witchers are hard to kill.” 

Silence stretched, only distracted by the soft crackling of the fire, and the wind shaking the window panes. With their luck, a blizzard was going to hit soon, and Lambert tried not to imagine Geralt’s face if he had lost Jaskier in a snowstorm on top of everything else. 

Lambert certainly didn’t startle when the bard plopped down next to him, ridiculously close on the wide couch. And he absolutely didn’t shudder when he saw the white bandages around his arms – unnecessarily bulky, as if someone was being extra cautious. He scowled and tried to remember that he didn’t like Jaskier, for being human and loud and breakable. Fuck, he thought. 

“Is Geralt mad?” Lambert asked, feeling stupid for worrying about it. But the older witcher wasn’t the most talkative of the bunch, especially when it came to feelings, and even more so when it was about Jaskier. 

“When is he not?” Jaskier laughed, genuine and carefree. “He’ll get over it.” 

The bard was warm and soft against his shoulder, and Lambert squeezed him briefly, before pushing him away. Because seriously, hugs? That wasn’t like him at all.

Or maybe it was the new normal. Lambert realized he could hear the faintest of lute music, coming from somewhere above. He briefly wondered if the poison had reached his brain and he was now hallucinating on top of everything else. Jaskier looked at him with a coy smile, waiting for the inevitable question.

“If you’re not playing, then who…” Lambert said, frowning.

“Ciri,” Jaskier said. “She wanted to learn.” 

“You’re teaching her how to play the lute?” Lambert asked, incredulous.

“I’ll have you known I’m a good teacher,” Jaskier shrugged, clearly miffed by the question.

“Sounds like a waste of time,” the witcher said. “She’s destined for greater things than music and poetry.” 

“And yet she’s just a child,” Jaskier insisted. “I know you want her to fight and become a witcher of some sort, but… she needs pretty things too.” 

They listened to the hesitant melody for a while, the notes free and joyful, despite Ciri’s clearly inexperienced fingers. For a short while, Lambert could nearly understand what Jaskier meant.

And then he started to worry again, trying to get up from the couch, ready to pace, find the others and discuss the threat. But Jaskier reached out and grabbed his arm, preventing him from going too far. In the end he relented and stayed put.

“Vesemir and Eskel are outside, making sure the ‘perimeter is safe’ – their words,” Jaskier said.

Lambert eyed the window and the falling snow. 

“I’m sure they’ll be back before the storm,” Jaskier said, following his gaze. “They’re not dumb.” 

“Debatable,” Lambert said, and the bard’s laugh was as weird and as pretty as the music notes coming from upstairs.

*

They all remained on their guard for a few days after that, once the blizzard stopped raging outside. The snow storm turned out to be a very good thing in the end, isolating the keep a little bit more, making it physically impossible to reach. Any footsteps would have stood out in the deep snow. 

Soon enough, Ciri and Jaskier were back to their shenanigans around the castle – keeping clear of the crumbling parts – avoiding chores while everyone else was doing their part. Geralt was probably the most stressed of them all; and for no good reason, really, except that he probably felt responsible for the two humans he brought to this place.

In Lambert’s opinion, they were surprisingly resilient and too annoying to die. Jaskier would surely come back as a wraith just to haunt Geralt if he ever happened to croak. Or maybe a musically inclined banshee. 

“What’s so funny?” Geralt grunted in his direction, and Lambert froze mid smirk.

“I think your bard is growing on me,” he said.

“And yet you keep trying to kill him,” Geralt remarked, but his tone was humorous for once.

“Speak for yourself,” Lambert replied.

He didn’t elaborate, but they both knew what specific shortcoming he was referring to. He didn’t ask if Geralt ever apologized, because he probably never did, not with words anyway. 

“I like how protective you get, it suits you.” 

“He doesn’t need my protection though,” Geralt said, despite the blaring evidence to the contrary. “He probably did more for us with his songs that I ever did for him.”

There was fondness in his voice as he said that, something deep and powerful that Lambert was only beginning to understand. Maybe Geralt too needed pretty things in his life, Lambert thought.


End file.
